_Waco_
The tramp Waco, drifting south through Prescott, fell in with a quartet
of his kind camped along the railroad track. He stumbled down the
embankment and "sat in" beside their night fire. He was hungry. He had
no money, and he had tramped all that day. They were eating bread and
canned peaches, and had coffee simmering in a pail. They asked no
questions until he had eaten. Then the usual talk began.
The hobos cursed the country, its people, the railroad, work and the
lack of it, the administration, and themselves. Waco did not agree with
everything they said, but he wished to tramp with them until something
better offered. So he fell in with their humor, but made the mistake of
cursing the trainmen's union. A brakeman had kicked him off a freight
car just outside of Prescott.
One of the hobos checked Waco sharply.
"We ain't here to listen to your cussin' any union," he said. "And seem'
you're so mouthy, just show your card."
"Left it over to the White House," said Waco.
"That don't go. You got your three letters?"
"Sure! W.B.Y. Catch onto that?"
"No. And this ain't no josh."
"Why, W.B.Y. is for 'What's bitin' you?' Know the answer?"
"If you can't show your I.W.W., you can beat it," said the tramp.
"Tryin' to kid me?"
"Not so as your mother would notice. Got your card?"
Waco finally realized that they meant business. "No, I ain't got no
I.W.W. card. I'm a bo, same as you fellas. What's bitin' you, anyway?"
"Let's give him the third, fellas."
Waco jumped to his feet and backed away. The leader of the group
hesitated wisely, because Waco had a gun in his hand.
"So that's your game, eh? Collectin' internal revenue. Well, we're union
men. You better sift along." And the leader sat down.
"I've a dam' good mind to sift you," said Waco, backing toward the
embankment. "Got to have a card to travel with a lousy bunch like you,
eh?"
He climbed to the top of the embankment, and, turning, ran down the
track. Things were in a fine state when a guy couldn't roll in with a
bunch of willies without showing a card. Workmen often tramped the
country looking for work. But hobos forming a union and calling
themselves workmen! Even Waco could not digest that.
But he had learned a lesson, and the next group that he overtook
treading the cinders were more genial. One of them gave him some bread
and cold meat. They tramped until nightfall. That evening Waco
industriously "lifted" a chicken from a convenient hencoop. The hen was
old and tough and most probably a grandmother of many years' setting,
but she was a welcome contribution to their evening meal. While they ate
Waco asked them if they belonged to the I.W.W. They did to a man. He had
lost his card. Where could he get a renewal? From headquarters, of
course. But he had been given his card up in Portland; he had cooked in
a lumber camp. In that case he would have to see the "boss" at Phoenix.
There were three men in the party besides Waco. One of them claimed to
be a carpenter, another an ex-railroad man, and the third an iron
moulder. Waco, to keep up appearances, said that he was a cook; that he
had lost his job in the Northern camps on account of trouble between the
independent lumbermen and the I.W.W. It happened that there had been
some trouble of that kind recently, so his word was taken at its face
value.
In Phoenix, he was directed to the "headquarters," a disreputable
lounging-room in an abandoned store on the outskirts of the town. There
were papers and magazines scattered about; socialistic journals and many
newspapers printed in German, Russian, and Italian. The place smelled of
stale tobacco smoke and unwashed clothing. But the organization
evidently had money. No one seemed to want for food, tobacco, or
whiskey.
The "boss," a sharp-featured young man, aggressive and apparently
educated, asked Waco some questions which the tramp answered lamely. The
boss, eager for recruits of Waco's stamp, nevertheless demurred until
Waco reiterated the statement that he could cook, was a good cook and
had earned good money.
"I'll give you a renewal of your card. What was the number?" queried the
boss.
"Thirteen," said Waco, grinning.
"Well, we may be able to use you. We want cooks at Sterling."
"All right. Nothin' doin' here, anyway."
The boss smiled to himself. He knew that Waco had never belonged to the
I.W.W., but if the impending strike at the Sterling smelter became a
reality a good cook would do much to hold the I.W.W. camp together. Any
tool that could be used was not overlooked by the boss. He was paid to
hire men for a purpose.
In groups of from ten to thirty the scattered aggregation made its way
to Sterling and mingled with the workmen after hours. A sinister
restlessness grew and spread insidiously among the smelter hands. Men
laid off before pay-day and were seen drunk in the streets. Others
appeared at the smelter in a like condition. They seemed to have money
with which to pay for drinks and cigars. The heads of the different
departments of the smelter became worried. Local papers began to make
mention of an impending strike when no such word had as yet come to the
smelter operators. Outside papers took it up. Surmises were many and
various. Few of the papers dared charge the origin of the disturbances
to the I.W.W. The law had not been infringed upon, yet lawlessness was
everywhere, conniving in dark corners, boasting openly on the street,
setting men's brains afire with whiskey, playing upon the ignorance of
the foreign element, and defying the intelligence of Americans who
strove to forfend the threatened calamity.
The straight union workmen were divided in sentiment. Some of them voted
to work; others voted loudly to throw in with the I.W.W., and among
these were many foreigners--Swedes, Hungarians, Germans, Poles,
Italians; the usual and undesirable agglomeration to be found in a
smelter town.
Left to themselves, they would have continued to work. They were in
reality the cheaper tools of the trouble-makers. There were fewer and
keener tools to be used, and these were selected and turned against
their employers by that irresistible potency, gold; gold that came from
no one knew where, and came in abundance. Finally open threats of a
strike were made. Circulars were distributed throughout town
over-night, cleverly misstating conditions. A grain of truth was
dissolved in the slaver of anarchy into a hundred lies.
Waco, installed in the main I.W.W. camp just outside the town, cooked
early and late, and received a good wage for his services. More men
appeared, coming casually from nowhere and taking up their abode with
the disturbers.
A week before the strike began, a committee from the union met with a
committee of townsmen and representatives of the smelter interests. The
argument was long and inconclusive. Aside from this, a special committee
of townsmen, headed by the mayor, interviewed the I.W.W. leaders.
Arriving at no definite understanding, the citizens finally threatened
to deport the trouble-makers in a body. The I.W.W. members laughed at
them. Socialism, in which many of the better class of workmen believed
sincerely, began to take on the red tinge of anarchy. A notable advocate
of arbitration, a foreman in the smelter, was found one morning beaten
into unconsciousness. And no union man had done this thing, for the
foreman was popular with the union, to a man. The mayor received an
anonymous letter threatening his life. A similar letter was received by
the chief of police. And some few politicians who had won to prominence
through questionable methods were threatened with exposure if they did
not side with the strikers.
Conditions became deplorable. The papers dared not print everything
they knew for fear of political enmity. And they were not able to print
many things transpiring in that festering underworld for lack of
definite knowledge, even had they dared.
Noon of an August day the strikers walked out. Mob rule threatened
Sterling. Women dared no longer send their children to school or to the
grocery stores for food. They hardly dared go themselves. A striker was
shot by a companion in a saloon brawl. The killing was immediately
charged to a corporation detective, and our noble press made much of the
incident before it found out the truth.
Shortly after this a number of citizens representing the business
backbone of the town met quietly and drafted a letter to a score of
citizens whom they thought might be trusted. That was Saturday evening.
On Sunday night there were nearly a hundred men in town who had been
reached by the citizens' committee. They elected a sub-committee of
twelve, with the sheriff as chairman. Driven to desperation by
intolerable conditions, they decided to administer swift and conclusive
justice themselves. To send for troops would be an admission that the
town of Sterling could not handle her own community.
It became whispered among the I.W.W. that "The Hundred" had organized.
Leaders of the strikers laughed at these rumors, telling the men that
the day of the vigilante was past.
On the following Wednesday a rabid leader of the disturbers, not a
union man, but a man who had never done a day's work in his life,
mounted a table on a street corner and addressed the crowd which quickly
swelled to a mob. Members of "The Hundred," sprinkled thinly throughout
the mob, listened until the speaker had finished. Among other things, he
had made a statement about the National Government which should have
turned the mob to a tribunal of prompt justice and hanged him. But many
of the men were drunk, and all were inflamed with the poison of the
hour. When the man on the table continued to slander the Government, and
finally named a name, there was silence. A few of the better class of
workmen edged out of the crowd. The scattered members of "The Hundred"
stayed on to the last word.
Next morning this speaker was found dead, hanging from a bridge a little
way out of town. Not a few of the strikers were startled to a sense of
broad justice in his death, and yet such a hanging was an outrage to any
community. One sin did not blot out another. And the loyal "Hundred"
realized too late that they had put a potent weapon in the hands of
their enemies.
A secret meeting was called by "The Hundred." Wires were commandeered
and messages sent to several towns in the northern part of the State to
men known personally by members of "The Hundred" as fearless and loyal
to American institutions. Already the mob had begun rioting, but,
meeting with no resistance, it contented itself with insulting those
whom they knew were not sympathizers. Stores were closed, and were
straightway broken into and looted. Drunkenness and street fights were
so common as to evoke no comment.
Two days later a small band of cowboys rode into town. They were
followed throughout the day by other riders, singly and in small groups.
It became noised about the I.W.W. camp that professional gunmen were
being hired by the authorities; were coming in on horseback and on the
trains. That night the roadbed of the railroad was dynamited on both
sides of town. "The Hundred" immediately dispatched automobiles with
armed guards to meet the trains.
Later, strangers were seen in town; quiet men who carried themselves
coolly, said nothing, and paid no attention to catcalls and insults. It
was rumored that troops had been sent for. Meanwhile, the town seethed
with anarchy and drunkenness. But, as must ever be the case, anarchy was
slowly weaving a rope with which to hang itself.
Up in the second story of the court-house a broad-shouldered,
heavy-jawed man sat at a flat-topped desk with a clerk beside him. The
clerk wrote names in a book. In front of the clerk was a cigar-box
filled with numbered brass checks. The rows of chairs from the desk to
the front windows were pretty well filled with men, lean, hard-muscled
men of the ranges in the majority. The room was quiet save for an
occasional word from the big man at the desk. The clerk drew a check
from the cigar-box. A man stepped up to the desk, gave his name, age,
occupation, and address, received the numbered check, and went to his
seat. The clerk drew another check.
A fat, broad-shouldered man waddled up, smiling.
"Why, hello, Bud!" said the heavy-jawed man, rising and shaking hands.
"I didn't expect to see you. Wired you thinking you might send one or
two men from your county."
"I got 'em with me," said Bud.
"Number thirty-seven," said the clerk.
Bud stuffed the check in his vest pocket. He would receive ten dollars a
day while in the employ of "The Hundred." He would be known and
addressed while on duty as number thirty-seven. "The Hundred" were not
advertising the names of their supporters for future use by the I.W.W.
Bud's name and address were entered in a notebook. He waddled back to
his seat.
"Cow-punch," said someone behind him.
Bud turned and grinned. "You seen my laigs," he retorted.
"Number thirty-eight."
Lorry came forward and received his check.
"You're pretty young," said the man at the desk. Lorry flushed, but made
no answer.
"Number thirty-nine."
The giant sheepman of the high country strode up, nodded, and took his
check.
"Stacey County is well represented," said the man at the desk.
When the clerk had finished entering the names, there were forty-eight
numbers in his book. The man at the desk rose.
"Men," he said grimly, "you know what you are here for. If you haven't
got guns, you will be outfitted downstairs. Some folks think that this
trouble is only local. It isn't. It is national. Providence seems to
have passed the buck to us to stop it. We are here to prove that we can.
Last night our flag--our country's flag--was torn from the halyards
above this building and trampled in the dust of the street. Sit still
and don't make a noise. We're not doing business that way. If there are
any married men here, they had better take their horses and ride home.
This community does not assume responsibility for any man's life. You
are volunteers. There are four ex-Rangers among you. They will tell you
what to do. But I'm going to tell you one thing first; don't shoot high
or low when you have to shoot. Draw plumb center, and don't quit as long
as you can feel to pull a trigger. For any man that isn't outfitted
there's a rifle and fifty rounds of soft-nosed ammunition downstairs."
The heavy-shouldered man sat down and pulled the notebook toward him.
The men rose and filed quietly downstairs.
As they gathered in the street and gazed up at the naked halyards, a
shot dropped one of them in his tracks. An eagle-faced cowman whipped
out his gun. With the report came the tinkle of breaking glass from a
window diagonally opposite. Feet clattered down the stairs of the
building, and a woman ran into the street, screaming and calling out
that a man had been murdered.
"Reckon I got him," said the cowman. "Boys, I guess she's started."
The men ran for their horses. As they mounted and assembled, the
heavy-shouldered man appeared astride a big bay horse.
"We're going to clean house," he stated. "And we start right here."